Everything You Do
by emmington
Summary: Merlin's afraid of so many things: being cast out, hated, known for every single thing he's done. His past actions frighten him, all the unspeakable things he's done in the name of keeping Arthur safe; all the things he's prepared to do in the future. Merlin has no shortage of things that scare him, but this tentative thing that's sparked between them? Never.


**For my friend Carol, who figured out how best to use me for fic. :)**

**Also, my scene breaks have disappeared three times. I keep putting them back but they refuse to stay. If they're missing when you read this, I'm so sorry.**

Merlin generally isn't picky about the weather. But when it's storming, dark as dusk in the middle of the day and very, very loud? Well, that's a different story. With the rain pounding down from the sky, wind howling through the trees and corridors, and the crack of thunder reverberating through his bones... It's horrible. Fills him with a sense of dread that he cannot shake off, a trembling sort of concern that manifests deep in his bones. It's been that way ever since he was small.

And that was before he called lightning from the sky and ended a life.

Now, it's different. More acute, like he'll drown under the fear if he can't control it. He remembers the feeling of power, raw and unhinged; the feeling of taking a life like he was owed it. Cannot breathe past the memory of hatred so strong it pumped his blood, nor the terror that he was too late; that taking her life wasn't going to be enough to save Gaius. His mother. Arthur.

The fear is still there and it's grown, like he has, into something stronger and harder to fathom. And he's as afraid of it as he is the storm.

xxxxx

This is the worst storm since... since _the_ storm (the one Merlin demanded into existence with a shout and a heart full of anger). Outside, the sky looks as if it's bruised, mottled dark with purples and blues. It makes it look like approaching night, even though Merlin knows it's barely past lunch. A lunch he didn't eat, if he's perfectly honest. Couldn't eat, for the nervous twisting in his stomach.

Arthur has been restless, itching to work off the store of energy he woke up with and unable to do much more than pace the length of his chambers. Merlin would comment on it, if he thought his observation would be appreciated. As it is, he's a bit preoccupied with the random flashes of lighting that streak through the sky, flinching well before the tell-tale boom of thunder. He just hopes Arthur's too wrapped up in his own frustration to notice; the mocking that is sure to follow is more than he can deal with, right now.

Of course, that would require Merlin to be lucky. When is he _ever_ lucky?

His wishful thinking is interrupted by a shuddering boom directly on the heels of another flash of lightning. Merlin is so startled he drops the hauberk he'd been polishing with a resounding clatter. For a moment, he wishes he could rewind time. Maybe if he tried really hard, he could, but he's still paying for the last time he defied the laws of the world.

Merlin doesn't have to look up to know Arthur's eyes are on him, so he doesn't. Instead he merely reaches to pick up the armor, resuming his earlier ministrations and ignoring the way his fingers are shaking. He can do this. Breathe in, breathe out, _pretend you're just a clumsy fool_. Don't think about the smell of scorched skin, of blinding light and torrential rain and a wind unlike any other.

_Don't let Arthur know what you're afraid of_.

He's so engrossed in feigning nonchalance that he doesn't notice Arthur's approach until it's too late, and Arthur's hand on his shoulder is enough to send the hauberk skittering across the stone once more.

"Clumsy," Arthur admonishes, though his eyes are fixed on Merlin's face. Merlin nods, trying to draw in a shuddering breath as quietly as possible. By the way Arthur's expression evolves from amusement to amused concern, Merlin knows he failed.

"That's me," Merlin replies, doing his level best to sound normal. "Clumsy as ever."

If his voice shakes enough to be noticeable, he's not going to mention it. He stoops to retrieve the hauberk from the floor and keeps his eyes on it, rubbing his sleeve across the metal to brush it off. There is a beat of silence, and all the while Merlin can feel Arthur's gaze on him. After a moment, Arthur reaches for the hauberk and gently lifts it from Merlin's grasp.

"Is everything alright?" he asks, setting the armor piece on the table.

Merlin wants to answer, wants to brush off the question like it's nothing; laugh and deny any problem whatsoever, but just as he opens his mouth the room lights up bright and crashes with sound, and Merlin trembles. He cannot stop the flinch backwards, can't keep his fingers from shaking, fisted in the cloth of his sleeves.

Of course, Arthur notices. His eyes grow soft with confusion and worry, and he takes a step closer, hand raised to the level of Merlin's shoulder. "The storm?" He asks, though he doesn't really need to. All the signs point to _yes_, _the bloody storm_. Merlin still refuses to meet his eyes, instead looking out the window at the torrent of rain pounding down from the clouds.

This is a secret he would have preferred to keep. Even after all the others come to light: the magic, the fact that he's fallen head over heels for his prince, the mistakes he's made in the past and the little lies he's told to protect the big one; even after all of those, he had hoped he'd get to keep this one. It makes him feel vulnerable in a way he doesn't entirely understand. There's something about this secret that is different than the others. More personal, like it's been tailor-fit just for him by his actions and choices, and not something about him he couldn't control. Like his weakness is displayed on his chest. Letting someone else know about it feels wrong, somehow.

Even if that someone is Arthur, who knows none of Merlin's secrets but deserves more than anyone to hear the truth.

After waiting a minute or two for an answer and not receiving one, Arthur sighs and lets it go. Somewhat. Merlin can feel Arthur's eyes on him as he continues about his chores, probing and incessant and crawling across his skin. The attention makes him uncomfortable, makes him feel exposed, wide open for Arthur to see everything. He tries his best to ignore it, and eventually Arthur's attention drifts elsewhere, though every single time lightning strikes and thunder booms, Merlin can feel his eyes back on him. They are not welcome, and he contemplates leaving. But he doesn't.

Eventually, Arthur distracts himself with a book, allowing Merlin to continue with his chores in relative peace.

When the rain finally lets up, though the storm is still raging loud and dangerous in the distance, Arthur puts his book away. He spends a brief moment just looking at Merlin, who is in the process of sweeping the floor for the third time; cracks of thunder had him dropping the dust pan and re-dirtying the floor.

"Come with me." Arthur's tone brooks no argument as he stands, chair scraping backwards across the stone. Giving Merlin perhaps thirty seconds to comply, he strides from the room. Not once does he so much as glance backwards, fully expecting to be obeyed. Typical, really.

Scampering after him, Merlin catches up in the corridor and contemplates, for a moment, asking where they're going. He doesn't, though, because Arthur doesn't look at him at all, instead continuing on his way in a very forceful manner. It doesn't take them long to reach the training field, at that pace.

Once there, Arthur stops and turns to face Merlin, standing roughly in the middle of the empty stretch of grass. As was to be expected, not many people are outside, having taken cover for the rain. A few stragglers mill about, but their attention is on their tasks and not the two men facing off on the field. Merlin takes a shuddering breath as somewhere in the distance, a grand clap of thunder rumbles across the sky.

"Look around you, Merlin. Tell me what you see."

Merlin complies, if only because he's curious. He doesn't understand Arthur's point, doesn't know why they're out here and he wants to. Needs to, almost, because he's hyper aware of the lingering sounds of the storm. Just being outside shouldn't make him antsy, but it does. After a long minute of glancing around and fighting not to give anything away, he shrugs. It's just a wet day in Camelot, by appearance. Nothing different. Nothing out of place.

"I see mud and trees and wet stone," he describes. "Nothing out of the ordinary."

"No damage?" Arthur prompts. "None at all?"

"No..." Merlin says, though it sounds like a question and he hadn't meant it as one. Arthur is confusing him more than usual.

"Then why are you so frightened by something that will not hurt you?" Arthur asks, and Merlin almost snorts. Now he understands what this is about.

He wants to argue that it could very well hurt him; that sometimes lightning strikes something that isn't air and it goes up in flames, burnt wood or charred flesh. Wants to argue that thunder sounds like an omen of death to him, the promise that somewhere, someone is plotting to kill or going to die, and it's Merlin's fault. That he's surely upset the balance of the world and this storm is a harbinger; this storm and others like it are a promise of utter destruction. But he doesn't want to, or maybe he can't.

Instead, he snaps his gaze back to Arthur, intent on giving him a withering glare, and freezes. Their eyes lock, and Merlin feels as though he's been hit. The sensation buzzing through his veins is so like the one he felt when he killed Nimueh, electric and sharp, that it punches the breath from him for a terrifying moment. He cannot look away, couldn't even if he tried and he's not trying at all. Arthur's eyes compel him and he is stuck fast, breathing heavily against the sudden onslaught of feelings rushing through him.

"Don't be afraid." Arthur says after a moment, voice a rough husk that indicates he can feel it, too. Whatever _it_ is, Merlin isn't the only one laid bare by it.

Merlin bites his lip against things he's not prepared to say, and refuses to meet Arthur's gaze. Something in him tells him that Arthur isn't talking about the storm, not anymore. No words come to him when he tries to think of something, _anything_, to show that he's not afraid; not of this.

Merlin's afraid of so many things: being cast out, hated, known for every single thing he's done. His past actions frighten him, all the unspeakable things he's done in the name of keeping Arthur safe; all the things he's prepared to do in the future. Merlin has no shortage of things that scare him, but this tentative thing that's sparked between them? Never.

Fingers clenched in the sleeve of his coat, he shakes his head and hopes that Arthur understands.

This is something he could never be scared of.

Arthur takes a step forward, boots squelching in the muddied soil, and then another. Merlin has to fight not to run to him, throw his arms around his prince and cling. The sky cracks open in a blinding flash, and in the resounding boom that follows, he feels his heart stutter and try to leap out of his chest. Rain falls from the sky in a sudden burst, soaking an already drenched world in a matter of moments. The few people scattered around them scramble for cover, but Arthur's gaze keeps Merlin rooted in place.

"There's no reason to be frightened," Arthur says, over the roar of the rain, and Merlin knows he means more than just the storm, and the charge building between them. Merlin gets the feeling, in that moment, that Arthur knows more about him than he's let on.

"You can't control your fears, Arthur," Merlin says shakily, taking a step closer. Beautiful blue eyes bore into his own, and he swallows. The distance between them suddenly seems so much larger than before; not because it's impossible a distance to close, but because Merlin's skin is tingling with nerves and he wants to reach out and touch, but Arthur is still so far away.

Arthur blinks at him, rain sliding across his brow and into his eyes. There is a tension that sparks between them, igniting in the hollow of Merlin's chest and spreading outwards, warming him from the inside out. He hesitates, on the threshold of something big, and bites back a sigh when Arthur closes the space that separates them. They don't touch, but it's a near thing; Merlin can feel the thrum of heat and static from Arthur's skin, a hairs breadth from his own.

"You can try." Arthur murmurs, voice almost lost in the noise, and finally bridges the gap. They crash into one another, breaths shuddering into the space between their lips. Arthur gives a small push and they stumble backwards, nearly knocking over a training dummy. That draws a quiet laugh from Merlin that Arthur shares.

Everything but the two of them ceases to exist; the scattered knights and huddling servants matter not, for all that this will create gossip. Arthur's clothes are slippery, fabric sliding from between Merlin's fingers, but that doesn't matter, either. Nothing penetrates the fog of _Arthur_ and _rightness_ hazing through Merlin's brain.

It's really hard to care about anything when Arthur is a wall of heat pressed against him.

"I know what you are. What you've done," Arthur murmurs against his lips, refusing to move away. It's words spoken in a kiss, warm and soft and meant just for the two of them. They suck the breath from Merlin's lungs and tighten a vice around his gut.

Today is the day where all of his secrets are pulled from him, one by one.

"Arthur, I-"

Arthur shushes him with another kiss, lips then trailing across his cheek to rest on the shell of his ear. "You're not half as sneaky as you like to believe, you know."

Merlin shivers, from the cold or the scald of Arthur's breath across his skin. His fingers hook in the cloth of Arthur's tunic and hold on tight. He doesn't try to speak, merely bites his lip and closes his eyes against the rain. He doesn't think he could find the words to say a damn thing, right now.

"You've got to be more careful, Merlin." Arthur's words are nothing more than a whisper, nearly lost in the torrential pounding of the rain. Merlin doesn't ask what he needs to be careful about; he knows, and he'd be a fool to deny it. There's only one thing they could be talking about, and while the revelation frightens Merlin down to his core, he isn't going to run away from it. Not anymore.

"It's for you, Arthur. And for me." Merlin swallows against something he can't name, and turns his face into Arthur's neck. This is it. This is his final truth. "For _us_."

Arthur is quiet for a moment, arms solid and strong where they bracket Merlin, a barrier between him and the rest of the world. When Arthur shifts, Merlin shifts with him.

"I know." Arthur finally whispers, lips fluttering across Merlin's jaw. "I know."

xxxxx

There's already a fire burning in the hearth when they enter Arthur's chambers, to which Arthur huffs a laugh. Merlin grins back, warm and teasing, and Arthur reaches out, his fingers stroking across Merlin's lips, chasing the smile.

"We're soaked." Merlin says, after he kisses Arthur's fingers a few times. Neither of them move to do a thing about it, steadily dripping water onto the floor. Arthur simply touches his own lips with his fingers, like he's trying to transfer the kiss. They refuse to break the quiet humming between them for a long, lingering moment. After a small eternity passes between them, Merlin finally steps away to retrieve something to dry them off with. He makes it perhaps six steps before Arthur crowds back against him, hands sliding up his sides beneath his shirt. Heat flares up between them again like it never left, Arthur's fingers burning hot and distracting against his skin.

Merlin heaves a breath, twisting his fingers into Arthur's hair and bringing their lips together, letting the power of what he's experiencing bleed from him into the places where their bodies meet. A small moan slips from Arthur's lips, lost in the tug of Merlin's teeth. The intensity building between them is the same as it had been on the field, but this time there's nothing stopping Merlin from tilting his head and delving deeper, licking his way into Arthur's mouth and pressing their bodies closer, closer. This time, there's nothing stopping Arthur from slipping his hands all the way up to Merlin's shoulders, bringing his shirt with him, fingers skating across the knobs of his spine.

Merlin gets lost in the feel of Arthur against him; breathing into his mouth, touching his skin, grabbing his hair and _pulling_. He's no match against it, can't fight the quiet groans that slip from him like sighs. They fall into the air between them, the infinitesimal space where one man ends and the other begins. Lightning flashes in the sky and Arthur pulls Merlin closer still, wet clothes dragging friction between them. There isn't enough room to be frightened, with Arthur's fingers on his neck, his face, his mouth. No room for anything but this, lips wet against his skin, hips grinding into his own.

And suddenly Merlin understands. This is how Arthur plans to protect him from his fears; bury himself under Merlin's skin and stay, fill up the empty bits within him until there's no space for all the lightning and the darkness that follows.

Merlin grins into the kiss, and tips them onto the bed.

xxxxx

Arthur is sprawled across Merlin, pressing him down into the mattress. Merlin would complain if the weight weren't a welcome one, heavy in a way that is more comforting than uncomfortable. Hell, Merlin would probably complain anyway, if not for the quiet blanketing them.

They've been this way for a while, quietly entwined in the center of Arthur's massive bed, merely existing in the same space with no desire to leave it.

"Is this magic?" Arthur eventually murmurs into the skin of Merlin's chest. Merlin doesn't respond, sliding his fingers through Arthur's hair. He knows he doesn't need to put words to the feeling beating through his chest (the feeling stuttering through Arthur's, pressed against his own).

They lie there for what feels like hours, limbs entwined and fingers stroking across whatever they can reach. Sometimes, Arthur tilts his head so he can see Merlin's face, and just stares at him for a little while. His smile is stupidly smitten, and sometimes Merlin cranes his neck so he can kiss it from his lips.

The day turns to night as they lounge in bed, gradually growing more pliant and tired. Sleepiness rumbles through Merlin's chest and Arthur laughs, a bright, joyous sound. Contentedness spreads through Merlin and he snuggles closer still, accepting the kiss pressed into his hair with a quiet hum.

"There's something about you, Merlin," Arthur teases, a reflection of his words from years ago. "I just can't put my finger on it."

"I'm magic." Merlin replies softly, rubbing his nose against Arthur's hair.

Arthur nuzzles back, a quiet groan of contentment slipping from him. "Yes, you are."

"_We're_ magic," Merlin says then, fingers lazily mapping the span of Arthur's back.

Arthur doesn't answer except to press a kiss against Merlin's chest, lazy and tender. It's the truth, after all, and there's no sense in denying it: this is the best sort of magic in the world.


End file.
